Music is a very intimate thing. The best songs seep right into your soul but the connection often evaporates if you share it. (Although sometimes it doesn’t.) Last night I was flipping through a magazine in Century City and came upon a piece called “Great Summer Songs,” and one of the respondents mentioned Fleetwood Mac‘s “Over My Head.” Fleetwood Mac was never a hip band, but they became fatally uncool after “Don’t Stop” played at the finale of the 1992 Democratic National Convention. And yet some kind of “Over My Head” memory turned a switch (I hadn’t listened to it in years) and to my everlasting shame I immediately bought it on iTunes.
I played it twice in the car on the way home. Schmucky as this sounds it sank right into my system like a Lemmon quaalude. Musical elitists like Glenn Kenny tend to sneer at such admissions, but a lot of people succumb to semi-sappy tunes of this sort on a car radio, especially at night. But as I listened to Christine McVie sing “you can take me any time you like, I’ll be around if you think you might,” I knew I couldn’t be having this moment if my sons Jett and Dylan were in the car. They would be mortified, and so would I. Keep it to yourself. Nobody else’s business.
My favorite McVie-Mac track is the raggae-flavored “Did You Ever Love Me?“